by Ruth Downie
Ruso said, “You were on duty when he took the money?”
“He was with the quaestor, sir.” The tone was defensive, as if they were afraid he was accusing them of negligence.
“Was there anything unusual about him that day?” asked Ruso, noticing Nico emerge from his office and scurry across the hall to the exit. “Anything he said or did?”
The guards thought about it. Finally one of them said, “It is not our job to notice what our betters do, sir.”
“So you just saw him take the money out as usual?”
“It’s not our fault, sir!” put in the other one, suddenly anxious.
“No,” agreed Ruso, “I’m sure it wasn’t.” It was hard to imagine them being bright enough to steal anything.
The sign said, “Satto, official money exchange,” and there were crude paintings of coins, but the money changer’s office was chiefly notable for the guards standing on either side of the entrance. They were not as smartly turned out as Dias’s men, but the studded clubs and steely stares suggested that they would be happy to respond to any complaints.
Satto was a small wiry man of about forty. He was seated between a hefty oak chest and a counter substantial enough to hold a considerable weight in cash without rocking his weighing-scales. He responded to Ruso’s request for a private conversation by gesturing to his guards to wait outside. Ruso ordered his own men to join them.
When they were alone, Satto reached behind him for a folding stool. Ruso opened it, guessing that most of Satto’s clients had to stand and wait while he decided what rate he was prepared to offer them. “I’m investigating the theft of the tax money.”
“So I hear.”
“I’m told you might be able to show me how to identify it.”
Satto extended one bony hand across the counter. On his little finger was an oversized bronze ring with a red stone. As he rocked his fist from side to side, the light from the window caught the dip of what looked like a tiny human figure engraved into the stone. “I inspect all the coins that go into the strong room,” he said. “If it’s still bagged, my tag should be on it with the date and that seal.”
Ruso tried to picture the little figure in reverse, stamped into wax. “I’d imagine it’s been rebagged by now.”
Satto withdrew the hand. “Unless it’s been stolen by someone very stupid.”
“What do you think a thief would do with it?”
Satto pondered that for a moment. “He could trickle it out slowly, or go somewhere nobody knows him-but arriving with a lot of coins would make him noticed. I would melt it down. It would be worth less, but much easier to hide.”
“How would it be worth less? It’s still silver.”
He caught the surprise on the money changer’s face and guessed that a real procurator’s man would have known the answer to that. He said, “I’ve only just been transferred to the procurator’s office.”
“So I see.” Satto leaned back, lifted the lid on the trunk, and groped about inside. “You’ll find that money is very rarely what it seems, investigator.” He produced a little wooden box, pushed it toward Ruso, and lifted the lid to reveal three small silver coins. “Take a look. They’re all the same.”
Ruso held one toward the light, peering at the profile of an emperor and the worn inscription around the perimeter.
“You won’t see many of these.”
“Are they fake?”
“No.”
The worn lettering was largely illegible, but something about the fat cheeks and the bouffant hairstyle was familiar. “Nero?”
“The emperor known as Nero,” Satto confirmed. “You won’t see many of them because coins are not what they once were.”
“No?” Ruso flipped it over in his palm. It looked much like any other denarius to him. The sort that arrived in his possession in depressingly small quantities and usually left very shortly afterward.
“Around about the time of the great disaster,” explained Satto, presumably referring to Boudica rather than Vesuvius, “the emperor Nero gave orders to have the amount of silver in the coinage reduced. There’s more silver in one of these than in anything they’re minting today.”
Ruso thought about that for a moment. He had never before considered that a denarius might be anything other than-well, than a denarius. “So,” he said, “if I melted down ten of these, and I melted down ten modern ones, what I ended up with from these would be worth more?”
“Exactly. Although not as much as they’re worth as coins.”
“So if somebody brings you one of these and wants change, do you give them more for it?”
“As I said, I rarely see one. Except perhaps when somebody’s turning out some old savings.”
It was a neat avoidance of the question. Ruso said, “And do they always know what they’ve got?”
“Not until I tell them.” Lest Ruso should not believe him, he added, “Don’t listen to what people say about us, investigator. Most of us are honest men. You may not recall that the emperor Galba once had a false money changer’s hands cut off and nailed to his counter, but you’ll understand why we find it…” He paused as if searching for a word. “An inspiration.”
Ruso said, “I’ll check my cash more closely in the future.”
Satto retrieved his treasure, glancing at it before he lowered the lid as if to make sure that Ruso had not performed some cunning sleight of hand and exchanged his valuable antique for some worthless modern bauble. “Not everything with Nero’s head on it is worth more. You have to know which is which.”
It was clear that there was more to coin exchange than Ruso had realized. It was not, after all, simply a matter of raking off a percentage of the bronze people used to buy bread as a reward for giving them the silver or gold they needed to pay their taxes. “So would there be any of these coins in the tax money?”
“Only if I was having a bad day when I checked it,” said Satto. “It should be all modern.”
Ruso returned to the center of the Great Hall deep in thought. There was no doubt that many things weren’t what they used to be, but he had always assumed that silver was silver and that a coin was worth what it said, no matter how old it was. Yet now it seemed that silver was not really silver despite bearing the emperor’s name and the stamp of the official mint. Passing beneath the plaque over the main entrance, he was reminded that Domitian had really been a murdering bastard despite all the toadying inscriptions that had been erected during his lifetime. You couldn’t trust a word you read.
He was beginning to think Tilla’s ancestors, obstinately illiterate and coinless, might have had a point.
47
The Council session had just broken up when Ruso returned to the chamber. Several toga-clad figures were striding toward the doors. Others were clustered in groups. The urgency of conversation and the way the groups were eyeing one another suggested that the meeting had ended in disagreement. One or two men approached Ruso to thank him, but nobody offered any new information. The clerk gathered up a collection of scrolls and hurried away with his head down, as if he was hoping to escape without being noticed.
Caratius abandoned what appeared to be an argument, raised his hand to acknowledge Ruso’s presence, and advanced toward him. Immediately Gallonius broke away from another group on the far side of the hall, gathered up fistfuls of toga, and set off in the same direction. For a moment it looked like a race down the chamber, with Ruso as the finishing post.
Caratius got there first and opened his mouth only to be drowned out by Gallonius with, “Sorry about the lively debate earlier.”
“Outrageous!” put in Caratius. “No respect. Can’t even let a guest speak without interrupting. This place is a disgrace. I’m sorry, Investigator. You and I are trying to find out why men lie murdered and money is missing, and these people are interested in nothing but petty squabbles about who’s allowed to be seen where.”
“Since it turns out Asper wasn’t the thief my fellow magistrate has bee
n making him out to be,” said Gallonius to Ruso, “it’s just as well some of us went to pay our respects.”
“An action for which you did not have the Council’s approval,” said Caratius.
Gallonius turned on him. “The quaestor and I went to the funeral as private individuals. It’s not at all the same thing as illegally representing the Council to the procurator, as you well know.”
Caratius looked as though he was considering punching his fellow magistrate, then managed to get himself under control. “The investigator isn’t here to waste his time on this kind of nonsense,” he said. “I know what kind of game this is. Ruso, I’m counting on you to find out the truth. If not, I shall appeal to the governor. One way or another, I will have justice!” He turned to Gallonius. “In the meantime I suggest you stop talking nonsense and concentrate on finding something useful to tell him.”
Ruso watched the tall, straight-backed figure march out of the chamber, gray hair flowing over the folds of the toga. He had to admit it was an impressive exit.
When his rival was gone, Gallonius took Ruso by the elbow as if he were an old friend. He steered him into an alcove and gestured him toward one elaborately carved chair while squeezing himself into the other. “Sorry about that, investigator. It’s been a difficult morning. Do sit down.”
Ruso sat. It was almost as uncomfortable as Valens’s couch.
“Would you believe the man refused to resign?” continued Gallonius, “even though the brother’s body turned up on his land.”
“He says he knows nothing about it.”
“Of course. But it doesn’t look good, does it?” Gallonius’s expression suggested it was not especially bad, either.
Ruso wondered if Caratius’s enemies on the Council had retained Asper’s services out of spite.
“On behalf of the town, I apologize for the way he came bothering the procurator. It’s beginning to look as though we should have dealt with this ourselves.”
Ruso’s insistence that there was no need to apologize was brushed aside with a wave of the hand. “He’s always been a difficult man. Doesn’t listen. Rushes in without thinking. We’ve tried to get rid of him before on the grounds that he doesn’t live in the town, but until now he’s always managed to wriggle round it. This morning we’ve finally done it.”
“But I haven’t finished my-”
“Oh, nothing to do with the theft and the murders, even though everyone can see what happened there. No, we’ve finally nailed him on a technicality.” The chair squealed in protest as Gallonius leaned back. “Caratius took money for overseeing drainage repairs outside the meat market eighteen months ago. The work’s not finished, I’m still getting flooding into my property, and the money’s not accounted for.” He lifted a pudgy finger toward one of the brass plaques on the far side of the Hall. “It’s clearly laid out in the Constitution. Tablet six, halfway down, The Sending Of Ambassadors. No man who has not accounted for public funds-you know the sort of thing.”
Ruso neither knew nor cared, but he was wondering whether Caratius was in the sort of financial trouble that would tempt him to steal the town’s money.
‘The man’s a menace,’ continued Gallonius. “No matter how the Council votes, he does as he likes. Things would never have come to this if he’d listened to the rest of us about the Iceni.”
“The Iceni?”
“Oh, he was all for some sort of alliance. The Council refused to get involved. Everyone could see the woman would be a disaster, but he went ahead and married her anyway.” Gallonius sighed. “And now we have two men murdered and the procurator sending a man to chase our tax payment.”
So Verulamium’s suspicious alliance with the Iceni had been nothing more than the ambitions of a rogue politician. The procurator would be relieved to hear it. “I just came to help,” Ruso said. “I’m not involved in the politics.”
“Please thank the procurator for his understanding. We’re sorry you’ve been troubled. You can assure him we’ll deal with it from here. Caratius will be paying up.”
“He will?”
Gallonius ground his palms together as if he had his rival trapped between them, and intoned, “Any ambassador who knowingly acts contrary to the rules shall be liable to pay the value of the case.” It sounded as though it was his favorite quotation. “The value of this case,” he added, “is seven thousand five hundred and thirty-two denarii.”
Ruso was confused. “But I thought it was the Council who sent him to Londinium in the first place?”
“That was Caratius’s argument too, but the Council took the view that he should have reminded us that he was ineligible. Instead he insisted on going.”
“I see,” said Ruso, appalled at the way in which a double murder had been reduced to an unsavory squabble about Council regulations.
“So it may not have been resolved in the way any of us expected, but you can go back to Londinium with the news that the money will be paid as soon as possible.”
Ruso said, “You should know that somebody sent me an anonymous note this morning warning me to get out of town.”
It took a moment for the words to puncture Gallonius’s self-satisfaction. When they did, his throat wobbled as he swallowed. “You’ve received a threat?”
“Yes.”
“A threat against a senior-oh, dear! This is terrible. Do the guards know?”
“I’ve told Dias.”
Gallonius shook his head in disbelief and repeated, “Terrible. Whatever was he thinking of? This is a civilized, law-abiding town. The governor says we’re an example to our neighbors. We’re hoping for a visit from the emperor.” The squabbling politician had vanished. The man looked genuinely upset. “A guest being threatened. I really can’t apologize enough. That a magistrate should stoop so low! Not to mention murder and theft from his own treasury! Shameful!”
“You think it was Caratius?”
“We’ll deal with him, don’t worry.” The magistrate sighed. “If only we had made Asper leave town after the scandal.”
“Yes,” agreed Ruso, getting to his feet. “If only.”
As he came out of the Council chamber he saw that a sizeable crowd had gathered around a cart parked in an open area of the Forum with a hefty wooden frame set up inside. A gangly youth dressed only in a loincloth and blindfold was manhandled up to it by a couple of guards, who stretched out his arms and roped them to the horizontal beam of the frame. One of the men stepped down. The other remained.
There was a pause while Dias’s voice made the announcement. This man had been caught with a ewe and a lamb stolen from his neighbor. Moments later the thin black tail of a whip flashed against the white of the Forum columns. A cry of pain rose above the murmurs of the crowd.
Ruso counted fifteen lashes: plenty of time for the guilty party and his audience to consider the folly of stealing their neighbors’ sheep. He wondered what they did to women who stole cockerels. As for magistrates who murdered tax collectors…
It dawned on him that as soon as he could prise Tilla away from Camma and the red-haired baby, he could follow the well-wisher’s suggestion and get out of this decent law-abiding town. Clearly the locals were embarrassed about the whole fiasco and desperate to clear up as much of the mess as possible for themselves. It was all very well for Caratius to say he was counting on Ruso to “find out the truth,” but Ruso had been sent here to serve the Council, and Caratius was no longer a councillor. Those who were wanted no further investigation.
Caratius would be accused and tried before the governor. Camma would have revenge, Metellus would have the name of the man who had murdered his agent, the Council would finally be free of a difficult man, and the procurator would get the cash. Ruso could go back to being a doctor and Tilla would never need to know that her name had been on that list. By the time Hadrian decided to visit, the town would probably have recovered its dignity. And Ruso might have recovered from the uneasy feeling that there was something wrong with all this, and that
he had just been used as a weapon in someone else’s political war.
He turned away from the crowd, shrugging the tension out of his shoulders. He had not done much to be proud of here. The discovery of the incriminating body had been the result of chance rather than investigation. Still, it was hardly his fault. If they had wanted a real inquiry, they should have hired someone who knew what he was doing. He would just pin down one last piece of information to satisfy himself that he had done as much as he could, and then he would face the challenge of extricating Tilla.
He turned to his guards, who were watching the youth’s supporters struggling to untie him and bathe his wounds. “I need to go to Julius Asper’s house,” he said.
48
To his surprise he did not need to ask where to find the housekeeper. She was already standing over the kitchen table with her hair scraped back from her face and an old tunic flung over her dress, pounding a pungent mix of garlic and coriander with a pestle.
This was not the time to discuss Tilla’s behavior at the funeral. Instead he exchanged good news with the women: on his side the fact that the Council would deal with Caratius, and on theirs the return of Grata and the fact that Camma had found forty-seven denarii and some bronze hidden in a box upstairs. Tilla, perhaps trying to make up for her performance earlier, meekly agreed to be ready to leave in the morning. He did not even need to tell her about the anonymous note. For once, everything seemed to be fitting into place.
The way Camma flung her arms around his wife and cried that she had saved her life left him feeling guilty for all his dire predictions about the folly of getting too involved. To his surprise Camma then flung her arms around him as well. Somewhere beyond his embarrassment and his desire to stop her hair from tickling his nose, he felt a warm glow of satisfaction.
“It was nothing,” he assured her, disentangling himself after a suitable interval. “Actually, it’s not quite over. There’s one last thing I need to check before I’m finished. Grata, the Council are bound to ask you to identify the person who brought the message from Caratius.”